Judy Wilson had just left when Phil double checked the envelope. Sure enough, $25,000. He thought that he just lucked into a sweet gig. $50,000, whether he found her brother or not. He thought he would follow up on what the police did, and then inform his client that he investigated, but couldn’t turn up anything. That way, he would get the rest of his money and have a guilt free conscience.
He called his friend from high school, a guy named Freddy, who worked in the police evidence locker, and told him what he had been hired to do, and asked for copies of everything the police had on the matter. Freddy said give him a few hours, and then meet him at the bar around the corner from the station. It was a place called Clancy’s.
That was perfect for Phil. He was out of bourbon anyway, and he would spend more time catching up with his friend than actually investigating. And he would make sure Freddy picked up the tab.
Phil showered and shaved, which really didn’t make him look younger, but at least he looked professional. And he found a sports coat that was less wrinkled than the other one he had.
At around 4:30 he got in his car and headed for the bar. He wanted to get there before the 5:00 crowd overflowed the place with humanity. He parked in front of Clancy’s, went inside, and grabbed a table near the rear.
And like clockwork, office drones dressed in cheap Armani knockoffs were filling up the place. Phil saw Freddy, and signaled him. Freddy made his way through the crowd, and sat down. Phil had already finished one glass of bourbon, and now that his friend was there, got up to get a second one. He asked Freddy what he wanted. A beer. Anything on tap was fine.
Phil grabbed the drinks and sat back down. It was good to see his friend. They engaged in a lot of small talk involving sports and movies, and cars. They never talked about personal issues, and definitely didn’t talk about politics.
After an hour spent on the state of the local football team, Freddy pulled out a manila folder from his bag, and handed it to Phil. It was fairly hefty. Phil wanted to make sure that he wouldn’t get in trouble for giving him the file.
Freddy laughed, and told him the darndest thing happened. He told a coworker that his friend was going to look into the Wilson disappearance, and next thing he knew, the precinct captain himself delivered the files, and told him to tell Phil good luck. Phil and Freddy laughed at the image of the all-important police captain just lugging a file down to the evidence locker personally.
But it was nearly time for Freddy to get home to his wife, and the longtime friends said their goodbyes. Phil headed back to his apartment, and stopped to get a bottle of bourbon. But as he was driving, something was really nagging at him. He couldn’t place a finger on it, but whatever it was, it was definitely strange.
Once back at his apartment, it dawned on him what it was that nagged his brain. Freddy said the captain gave him the files and told him good luck. The police never sanctioned an outsider looking into a case while the investigation was still ongoing. They threatened countless PIs with a loss of their license for prying. He thought it was really strange that the police gave him the files willingly.
He grabbed his last clean glass and poured himself a drink, then started reading. Everything seemed to be in order. The police conducted numerous interviews with Veronica Cartwright and the four full time servants that worked for Jack Wilson. They had run a check on his Social Security Number, and monitored his bank accounts, but there was no trace of him being in the city.
Phil read the bio. Jack Wilson was 47 years of age, standing 6’1” and weighing 210lbs, at least according to his last physical done a week before his disappearance. He lived at 123 Apple Court, which was the richest section of town.His parents were deceased, he had no children, and Judy was his only sibling, being 3 years younger.
He started his business at 26, and grew it quickly. His net worth was about a million. One thing Phil noticed was that occasionally, Wilson would go on a bender. It was quite possible that he left his house, and drove out to a remote area of the state, and had a tragic accident. There were parts of the state that were covered with dense wooded areas.
And then Phil got to Veronica Cartwright, a 26 year old brunette with a figure to die for, if going by the photo Judy provided. She was 5’10”, 120lbs, and worked for a cosmetics firm. She too was single, with parents deceased. She had no other living relatives. She lived at 11 Smith Drive, which sat upon the big hill at the edge of town, just like Judy thought.
Phil read the bios of the servants. He didn’t notice anything that would raise a flag. They were all long-time employees, and they made a very good living. He noticed the time was approaching 11:30 pm, and decided that he should get some sleep.
Phil dozed for about an hour when he woke up, and felt that same nagging feeling that he did earlier. He didn’t know what was bothering him, but he felt compelled to reread the statements of Veronica and the servants.
As he read them, it became very clear that the statements were identical. Usually when people witness an event, or recall things, their general sense is usually in line with other people. It’s the small details that are different. Different people remember different things. However, their statements were almost verbatim.
Phil wondered how the police missed that. That should have been enough to forward to the DA, who would convene a Grand Jury to investigate further. But the police didn’t, and the DA never asked. Phil was starting to get a sense that something was amiss with this case. It started to pique his interest. Now he knew where to start: 11 Smith Drive.